Mitka had sent his app already. Between that 

and his first workdays––during the minutes 

before being a middle-man or not––what more

for him to do but whittle down some masks, 


wear down the wood for wearing? Desde heard 

his humming that she did not recognize 

as an attempt to sing some songs he’d heard 

her practice. She saw his hands shake, not from


imagining the coming handshakes, but 

also because his hands upon the wood

scared him. Between his work and him,

he’d always left the distance of an awl,


digging in like he had cleaned their bowl

with bread, using the crumb to sponge

the soup, and scraping all that stuck with crust.

Though Mitka’s allergies precluded


any garnish offered on their lunch, the cooks 

had overloaded it with meat to flatter her––

for who else tipped by lessening their tax? 

Desde was wise to leave him all the scraps:


Mitka had known some girls, fat enough

to flatten him, and fit him for the finest slits––

and she had known some others, who

wishing to be stars instead of planets, had 


placed themselves on diets (or diets placed 

on them) so that their boys could lift them up, 

without the wall to pin them on the other side

(what else would they abstain from but 


the top-half of their sandwich’s brioche? So. 

Desde was all too glad when he picked up 

the bowl to hunt down her last grains. During 

his break between the masks, Mitka began 


to think of breakfast past; his coffee kick 

began to wane, and the cup that made him

feel like God then, now makes him feel 

like only Coffee, pulling his brain into a line 


back to this morning when he first drank it:

the perfect cup that took the counter time 

to make, and gave him even more time. Lately,

he’d been haunting the cafe until the latte


night, when the waiter turned the open-sign 

to face him; only after meeting Desde 

did he come this morning, to read the books 

she’d lent. What desde once bought 


and bought, Mitka now borrowed and

returned. To be a debtor made him feel 

her books were goners in his hands, while 

immortalizing Desde with the creditor’s 


forever. The rentor’s life made him 

wear more, tear less––oh, if only he could 

break things before he broke them in, 

and chalk it up to buyer’s mishap! But


Today, he had only his app to tend. 

The line was quiet, and only got quieter as 

Mitka came in, as if he’d perpetrated 

all they gossiped and could peer into their


conspiracies––as if Mitka were time,

the sin inside eternity, and they 

the whisperers who found forever in

his jerks––which, though soft, put them


on edge. Even the rock of Mitka’s wheels 

got them guessing whether he’d close in

to pounce on them, or leave to rat them out.

They, the ones who’d taken the same route


to the airport as him: a road so long it hid

whether a bird was coming or going till

it disappeared or hit him! He continued 

working on his app––Ah, he wished to have


so much experience that he could crumple it

out of nostalgia! Why, if he could nab the job

could he not reel it to him, rather than 

have it reel him away––work abroad, 


it said! He wouldn’t be able to borrow 

Desde’s books anymore, but he’d be able

to buy his own. He told Desde he didn’t

mention masks in his submission––what he 

neglected telling her was that the hiring

was headed by his uncle, who treated 

his family as labor-store and viewed

a nephew asking for a job like he was asking


for promotion. His uncle, who had strove

against Mitka’s father and drove him to

Abiet––who, one generation later, couldn’t find 

his daughters capable of trade, and had 


to import interns! After pressing send,

Mitka explored the airport mall and found

a fortune telling booth. He knew that out

of all the ones he’d met once past, those 


hopeless enough to hop from Abietta to 

another land, he was the only one

who wouldn’t change his past; yet

he wished to know his future. Would he get 


his job? Would the crystal ball show

the globe to him, and could his palms be read? 

Decades worth of pushing wheels had left them

scarred with tread; puppets and masks,


even more. How monstrous it was, to find

the back of his hands, smoother than 

his palms; to find his veins not rivers, but 

summits between two planes of skin! To him, 


soothsaying was that soothing medicine

that’d cured itself of past barbarisms, though

unable to be styled as modern. Would 

Desde agree to come, if he said please? 


He didn’t even know if she believed 

in it, but still wished to ask whether 

she’d come with him––or really, just 

her income. He’d already buttered her up 


to make her buy clothes he said had fit her, 

more and more outlandish to push her in 

his grasp. If Desde was willing to make 

herself fit for his eyes, how much longer


until it’d be fit to ask something for himself?

She’d already bought him lunch; and now 

he wished to ask if she’d have dinner at 

the fortune-teller’s, as if she were the seer. 


The question swelled in him like torture that

numbed only when he focused on her own

lapses––even the tiniest slits would work.

his fingers counted down until they were a fist, 


curling after his carve. He’d already finished 

his masks today, his letter to his uncle––so, 

what was stopping him from taking a break

and asking? He knew that she’d been begged 


before. A first job for someone so fresh

but one that had so many previous hires

and one that’d wear him thin, day one! 

It took only an uncle’s yes to get him out 


of Abietta––but before that, he wanted Desde’s

[D]: Yes? [M]: Aren’t you bored, watching 

me carve? Isn’t there something else you’d want

to do––[D]:Oh! I’d thought of going to the 


fortune-teller, if only––[M]: Oh! [D]: If only they 

hadn’t closed today! [M]: What? [D]: Did you

forget it’s Sunday? [M]: How could I? Even 

the angels know that day. But where else could 


we go––[D]: The jungle! It would clear up

the sap from all the carvings. The shavings 

make me dizzy, just looking at their spirals. 

We missed the fortune-teller, but there’s still 


light left to hike! [M]: Yes, and the afternoon 

mosquitoes. Can’t we stay in, like the one 

encased in amber that you’ve got? [D]: Oh Mitka, 

that old mosquito has its own myth too––


it wasn’t shrined here just by staying in!

Look at how big it is compared to the ones

you’ve killed. Back then, they were so fierce

that they’d only be blown away by spit.


What wonder, given how much fiercer blood 

they sucked? [M]: What wonder that they sucked

and went extinct. [D]: Mitka, the puny ones

would worship elders if they could––how far 


they know that amber goes! Yet closer than 

the gap between heroic blood and yours.

Now, let’s stop brushing up on history! Give

that tome to me so I can shut the door. #

He helped her take it from the doorjamb, and off 

they went! There were travelers waiting for 

their flights, swatting at mosquitoes, sweating 

yet cooled by thoughts of being elsewhere, 


twelve hours ahead. He saw the goers slap

their shoulders, twirling their mosquitoes off––

and that was how he found out where 

the dance of islands came from, a dance 


in every Abiettan’s blood––one that kept 

mosquitoes rapt––and one that harpies took 

no part in. Desde would frown at Mitka

giving it his best shot, and then he’d stop 


and get bit. But she was glad that they 

distracted him from the seer’s booth!

Otherwise, he would’ve seen that it

was open, and that she had lied. Really, 


she hadn’t wanted to go so soon because 

that was where Denis had told her he

was running for mayor. Mitka didn’t know 

that Denis was the reason why 


his plan-A failed––but he did feel bad, taking 

the mayor’s place, strolling with her. And 

wasn’t it Denis who had ordered roads 

to let in wheels like his? The paths they took 


most likely took her back––and Mitka, though

only a new tenant, saw nostalgia keep her from

House-keeping. For, as soon as she had left 

her room, yet not so soon to turn back easily, 


Desde began to fret forgetfully. 

[D]: Did I lock the door? [M]: Don’t you 

lock it every time? If you forgot, then 

nothing’s out of place. [D]: Tell me how 


you know––isn’t it easier to forget to do 

than to forget we did? [M]: Not if we’ve 

lost count! For that’s the start of habit. 

[D]: Habit makes us forget we did––yet pricks 


us more, forgetting to do. I might’ve forgot

I did, yet the fact it bugs me makes me think

I only thought I did––[M]: Just forget it! 

Even if it were open, I’m sure others would do 


your job for you. [D]: Don’t joke around, or 

I’ll make you check…at least I brought the keys. 

[M]: The one that locks the door back there? 

[D]: And the door we need unlocked ahead. #


Her lie had got them on the path, but it 

was Mitka’s joke that made them stay. Desde 

unlocked the exit, and a ray of light

so slim it could be twanged, beamed down


the trees whose wood Mitka had used 

for masks. Cut trunks sent light back up

as well––as shiny as the mirrors in 

Desde’s own manor wardrobe. Although 


the rain had wrecked their bark, much more 

had it polished the final cut through decades––

like pates, bald as their beards were rough.

[M]: I never could see rings under the gleam 


of my reflection––of how I aged, or let 

myself go, since I’d seen it last. Has

Nobody come across them and not glimpsed

themselves? The trunk hides behind those


wishing to look younger. One time, I even 

felled a tree to cut my hair! Though some 

could take my blows, the strongest ones 

would make my wheelchair kneel. [D]: Is that 


a joke––have you been cutting down our trees? 

Haven’t you heard the mayor’s ordinance? 

I’m not accusing you, if you didn’t––yet if 

you did, there’s no excuse. [M]: Who knows? #


He’d spent his teens, reeling after his blows,

tigred among the roots that striped the floor.

This was the manliness that gave him such 

a look, that made Desde lament that it 


was she who needed glasses, and not him; 

that the uglier was worse-sighted, and 

not him. She could not believe he was 

a virgin, for it looked like he’d been raped 


by beauty. Tell her it wasn’t so, that 

girls with glasses get the hardest passes! 

Oh, he searched for all but her––but she 

didn’t even need her eyes to know that he 


would find nothing––that the only haul 

was him. The season was over, and none 

of his foraging could rush the next one

any faster. His hands were rich with only the 


mosquitoes Desde couldn’t smack––yet he 

smacked not any that landed on her, fearing 

that the dirt upon the wheels would stain

her skin. Nor did he seek excuse to touch


her––and that lack of reason was why none

set foot upon her skin before reaching

his hand. The fog turned thick, thicker 

than her. The less he saw, the less he thirsted––


had it always been this wet, and had 

the mosquito, centaur of its dragon world, 

been choked off now by sulfur in the air?

The volcano’s tip was nearing when

they caught a whiff of steam mixed in the mist.

A hot spring! Desde made the waters rise 

enough for him to scoop a cup from his seat

and drink; balancing her sinking, sip 


by sip. By the time he quenched himself, 

he had lowered the levels just enough 

so that they skimmed her upper breast.

Water glid on her wings then landed on 


her shoulders––so waterproof were her feathers

that they kept her floating, more than fat. 

She scooted; Mitka thought of wading in

but wavered, only managing to gulp


its brim. His palms were black enough;

why would he dirty them more by having 

them stand him up while drying off,

just as the dirt of those who shower runs


to their soles, and are trapped there by 

their walk? But he did try to get closer, 

descending from his chair and laying near.

For a second, the sun parted two clouds––


and as the clouds came back again between 

the sun and earth, her shadow went out

to play like a child. This hot-spring took 

her back to when she learned to fly; 


above was the tree that, as a fledgling,

she hopped from branch to branch. It was

now big enough to string her hammock;

and she, big enough to leap across the


volcano’s peak, from one pole to another,

so risky that it flew past sink-or-swim. 

She sweated, just thinking of it––and 

the spring cleansed her with the same heat


that once almost cremated her. She blushed

in it, and for staying so long in it. 

Though wings were much better at keeping

beats, they couldn’t match a wrist at keeping 


watch. The sun was done for the day––it’d gone 

into the clouds, as grave as a sunset. 

The ripples did not gleam––to see them was 

to see the mirror they distorted. When


sunny, this spring stretched days to two,

made noons feel like they ought be midnight––

but when cloudy, showed only her double to 

distract her, and make time go twice as fact. 


She played quiet, and tried to still her breath 

to freeze her reflection––she was closing in!

The pool was nearing glass, until some rings

from off approached, and wrecked it all. Had


Mitka thrown a pebble? She was about 

to chide him, when she gasped that he had dove

his hands into the pool, so deep it rose 

enough to cover her nipples. He flailed


as if the water grabbed his arms, opened

his hands as wide as they could flare as he

struggled to close them back to fists. Was

he searching for the hot spring’s plug––or


pulling, like he’d found it? Desde knew 

that deep down, there was only its source––

and one that’d drown him more than he 

could drain. She was too weak to pull him out; 


only after she rose from it did the water

lower enough to free him like the stopper

of the spring. Her naked clothed his thought

––he flung away, rolling like his wheels


back to his wheelchair. Mitka reached for his 

arm-rests––and when he saddled up, he found 

his hands so clean that they could finally hold 

her clothes, which he put upon his lap.